


Here's to pretty boys

by wannabequeen



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Coming In Pants, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Frottage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Public Sex, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 11:44:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4478048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wannabequeen/pseuds/wannabequeen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire has new leggings that he wears clubbing with Combeferre. Dancing leads to grinding and making out, which leads to frantic dance floor frottage and a back-alley blow job. Featuring gentle-dom dirty-talking Combeferre.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here's to pretty boys

**Author's Note:**

> Idea brainstormed and fic beta'd by [corporalmaladict](corporalmaladict.tumblr.com) on tumblr.
> 
> fic title from a well-known "mistake" lyric from drink with me, "here's to pretty boys/who went to our heads/here's to pretty girls/who went to our beds" (recording [here](https://youtu.be/Thsl50Fd3RA?t=10s).)

The club’s air conditioning is on but the dancers on the floor can hardly feel it; every so often a cool breeze may brush their faces as they throw their heads back, but mostly the air is thick and warm and heavy with the want of too many people in too little space. They’re not here to breathe, not really. They’re here to dance, to drink, to fuck if they’re lucky or to see pretty people if they’re not. Grantaire and Combeferre are here because R had a friend of a friend who could get them in, and R had wanted to show off his new leggings - they’re red and plaid and leave very little to the imagination. He knows he’s had Combeferre’s eyes on him since he put them on, but he revels in the eyes of so many strangers appreciating his ass, his thighs, his dick, which grows heavier the longer they’re here.

The bass pulses loud enough that they can feel it in their teeth, and Grantaire slips through the crowd, holding two glasses of water above his head. A few hands reach out to brush against him, gentle and appreciating, before returning to their places on the waists, hips, necks of their dancing companions. Grantaire reaches Combeferre and hands him one of the cups. Grantaire drinks half of it and pours the rest over his head, looking up at Combeferre just in time to catch a rivulet of water in his open, panting mouth. Grantaire runs a hand down the back of his head and his neck, showing off his chest and arms and rolling his hips. Combeferre slams back the water and throws the plastic cup in the vague direction of a trash can and grabs R’s hips to line them up, one knee between R’s thighs.

They dance. Combeferre’s hands settle, proprietary, on R’s hips, and R’s hands roam from Combeferre’s neck to his biceps to his back pockets to his hair. They kiss, heavy and open-mouthed and filthy, bodies rolling to the beat and sticky with sweat.

Everyone everywhere is writhing and touching and looking for a brief moment of connection and they’re at the center, oblivious, pressed in on all sides. They don’t mind because the air is hot and heavy and they’re gasping for it and for each other, touching their neighbors on the dance floor, but untouchable. They’re both hard, but neither of them wants to leave.

Grantaire breaks the kiss, tucking his face into Combeferre’s shoulder for a breath. The grain of his stubble catches on Combeferre’s smooth skin. When Combeferre releases a soft, involuntary grunt, Grantaire grins and scrapes his cheek along the sharp line of Combeferre’s jawbone. Reaching to get his lips near Combeferre’s ear, Grantaire murmurs 

“You like that?” before nipping at his earlobe. 

“You know I do, you tease,” Combeferre says, tightening his hands on R’s waist and nudging his thigh higher up between his partner’s legs. At Grantaire’s moan, he smirks. “Do you want to get off this way, my pretty boy? Do you want to rub off against my thigh because you can’t wait? Do you want to come in your pretty new leggings and get the bus home knowing how dirty you are?”

Grantaire’s breath catches and Combeferre grins, sharp, and bites at his neck. He slides his hands from R’s waist to R’s ass and grips tight, encouraging the tiny hitches of his hips until he is thrusting desperately, no longer moving to the beat of the music. Anyone who looked over at them would be able to see what’s happening, but no one really looks, strangers wrapped up in the intricacies of their own lives and their own dances. R, though, feels the weight of a hundred eyes on his back, and is only spurred faster for it. 

“Good, sweetheart, you’re doing so good,” Combeferre says as he runs a fingertip under the band of R’s leggings, dipping down to the cleft of his ass. Grantaire breathes out harshly, bites his lip hard, and shudders. He slumps a little, wiggling his hips, and breathes out a “Fuck, Combe,” into the crook of his neck. Combeferre’s arms are tight around him and his cock presses insistently at R’s hip through his jeans.

“R, how would you feel about getting out of here?”

“I would feel just fine with that, though if we could grab some napkins -” Grantaire stops at the sight of Combeferre’s raised eyebrow. “What, I should be cold and sticky?”

Combeferre pulls the gray handkerchief out of his left pocket and hands it to R. “I think we’re covered, let’s go.” He grabs R’s hand and starts leading the way to the door. The bouncer gives them a little two-fingered salute and a smirk, making Grantaire flush up the back of his neck and his ears, where he wasn’t already pink from exertion and arousal. Combeferre looks back at Grantaire biting his lip and tugs his hand. “Come on, R” he says, leading them out of the club and around the corner into the back alley. 

“Fuck, R, do you know what you do to me? That was so sexy, coming right there for me because you’re so desperate. You made me so hard, can you feel it?” Combeferre pins Grantaire against the wall, feeling Grantaire going soft and compliant underneath him, and uses two fingers to bring R’s chin up for a kiss. It’s more tender than the kisses they were exchanging in the club, but certainly not any more chaste. The bass line filters through the brick at R’s back, and he reaches down to unbutton Combeferre’s jeans.

“I feel it, Ferre. Let me take care of it for you."

Combeferre moves back a little, enough for Grantaire to sink to his knees and pull his dick out of his boxer-briefs and place an open-mouthed kiss to the head. “Ok?” he asks, looking up through long lashes.

One of Combeferre’s hands moves from where he was using it to support himself against the wall to settle in his hair, fingers twisting in the curls and tugging just a little bit. “Ok.”

Permission requested and received, R starts kissing gently up and down the sides, damp and soft and quick, flickering his tongue out to tease at his frenulum. Combeferre’s grip tightens in his hair, a silent prompt to get on with it that Grantaire ignores, aside from tilting his head a little more.

“Are you being a brat on purpose, baby?” Combeferre pants as he looks down at R’s curly head, his hair falling in front of his face. Grantaire takes the head of his cock into his mouth, flicking at the tip with his nimble tongue, and he blinks, guileless. 

“You know you can always just ask me to fuck your mouth the way it should be fucked, right? You don’t need to tease to get what you want.”

R pulls off of Combeferre. “Yeah, but it’s always better when you’re _frustrated_.”

“Well then.” Combeferre brings the hand still against the wall down to cup R’s jaw, running his thumb along the swell of his lower lip before pushing down, just a little. “Open up.”

Obligingly, R does. His lips open, making a slack O. As he’s softening up his tongue and throat, Combeferre pushes in. One hand twisted tight in R’s hair, the other on his jaw, and pinned against the wall by Combeferre’s weight, R can’t move, doesn’t have to worry that he’s not doing well, because there’s now way for for him to go wrong. Combeferre’s controlling it so it will be good, he will be good. 

Combeferre’s fucking his mouth in earnest now, long hard thrusts to the beat of the music pounding through the wall R is so thoroughly pressed against. He’s relentless, unceasing, as R breathes deep through his nose where he can as Combeferre mutters filth down to him. 

“You’re so pretty, on your knees for me, getting those dirty leggings even dirtier, but they were dirty the moment you put them on, beautiful, your lips so fucking pink and soft around my cock, taking it so good. You’re doing so good, baby, you’re so hot, looking at me like there’s nothing else you want but my dick in your mouth…”

R hums, then, because right now, it’s true. He wants for nothing. Combeferre, tense and panting above him, stills, groans loud, louder than they’ve been all night, loud enough that someone on the street could hear him, and comes hot and strong in R’s mouth. R doesn’t mind the taste, but he doesn’t like the feel in his mouth. When Combeferre pulls out, tucks himself back in, and offers him a hand up, R turns his head and spits before accepting and rising with shaky knees. 

Combeferre reaches over and runs his thumb across R’s cheekbone, his touch soft. R’s eyes fall shut like a trusting cat’s, and Combeferre can’t help but lean down and press a gentle kiss on each eyelid.

He reaches down to take R’s hand, and turns to leave the alley, to get on the bus and head back to their apartment. R follows, mussed and fucked-out. 

“Come on, sweet pea. Let’s get you home.”

**Author's Note:**

> I stuck [hanky coding](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Handkerchief_code) in there because I'm a gay mess.


End file.
